GREAT. THEY'VE DONE IT TO ME AGAIN. You think to yourself. THEY'VE STUCK ME IN ANOTHER ONE OF THEIR SILLY SCENARIOS. You glance about with a look of irritation on your face. WELL, I'LL SHOW THEM. I'LL MAKE SHORT WORK OF THEIR STUPID LITTLE PUZZLE...

COURT YARD
A good sized courtyard with an air of late British colonialism about it. To the west, in the direction the sun is setting, is a high, grey stone wall with an ornate iron gate set into the rock. The walls of a large stone mansion rise several stories
into the chilly evening air to the east, north, and south. In the east wall, two or three stories up, is a large window. On top of the west wall, above and to the right of the gate, is a large squirrels nest made of sticks, twigs, and leaves.

A carpeting of old brown leaves from past winters rustle about on the ground in the breeze and drift listlessly across a cracked, stained, pale green tennis court with a rotting net. In one corner of the court yard an impressively large oak tree casts
long shadows in the dimming light. The acorns nestled among the tree's massive branches and vividly healthy leaves are new and green. Near the tree is a quaint looking well of crumbling stone.

A rusty tin pail rests in the grass near the ball machine.

The tennis ball launching machine sitting in one corner of the yard looks like a relic from the 1930s.